Born To Those Who Thrice Defied Him
by the word crafter
Summary: The prophecy detailed by Sybill Trelawney left room for interpretation. Looking at a world in which Harry is simply "one of the Potter boys," while his brother Neville remains constantly in the spotlight, the competitive spirits of the boys are born.
1. Prophet's Wisdom

_"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches...born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies...and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not…and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives...the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..."_

Sybill Trelawney's eyes flew wide open. She clutched arms of the chair from which she had been falling.

"Cup of tea, headmaster?" she asked in her usual, dreamy voice.

* * *

><p>A man, clad in black, sweeping robes, stood in front of a closed door. His eyes were shut as if in concentration and his mouth formed silent words as he stood. Bits and pieces of a conversation beyond that door made their way to his ears. He seemed to be waiting for something, some kind of signal. When that signal came, his eyes flew open, revealing dark, bottomless pupils and an expressionless visage.<p>

The dark, greasy hair that flopped over his forehead swung about as he walked down the corridor, away from the door. No emotion escaped his carefully protected mind. The young Severus Snape had made a discovery of the utmost importance.

The door creaked open, as if nervous to reveal the contents of the room it protected from the outside world. An old man with a beard reaching to his waist stepped out, his face contorted with confusion and uncertainty. He did not wave goodbye to the other occupant of the room, merely closing the door, and, following in Snape's footsteps just moments before, proceeded down the hallway. Albus Dumbledore had just been the sole witness—or so he thought—to a prophecy that had the capability of changing the course of events in his troubled world, if only it came to light.

He was barely a month old, and yet already he had assembled a group of devoted followers, each as willing to do his bidding as the next. Uncle Algie was not a young man, but when in the company of the infant, proceeded to perform the wild and immature tricks of his youth—five airborne flips in a row the _least_ impressive among them. Grandma Augusta showered the baby boy with gifts, from a newly hatched toad (dubbed quickly by the boy to be Trevor) to a toy broomstick, on which he flew in circles for hours, sometimes crashing into vases and antiques—all quickly forgotten in the face of his charm.

For the infant Neville Longbottom was the epitome of all that was adorable, and lovable in a child. His parents loved him very much, he lived in a large house with a large garden, and he was overwhelmed with presents on a daily basis. The spoiled boy, however, remained his sweet, unassuming self—delighted by plant life, especially the pus-filled cacti and carnivorous flowers that decorated his window sills, which was replenished yearly. Surprisingly, he showed an aptitude for taking care of them, and by Christmas only a few pots needed to be refilled.

It was in this environment that Neville grew up. Spoiled, adored, and doted on, by his half birthday he had become somewhat of a living legend among his relatives as being the first in their family to show signs of magical development. He'd thrown a pot at the window after its plant had died, only to find that, after it shattered on the wall, it reassembled itself, the soil regrouped into it, and a plant began to grow—grow so fast, actually, that his father was forced to rush it outside and place it in the wide expanse of green in front of their house.

They lived, not in a closely packed English suburb, but in the Lake District, up north, next to a medium-sized body of uncharacteristically warm water (did the fact that the family to which it belonged was wizards make it a difference?), referred to affectionately as "Neville's Pond," because the little boy did really love it. The front lawn was wide, expansive, and very vegetated, due to Neville's growing passion for flora. Projects that had grown too large for the old English manor were instead transplanted to a sunny portion of the yard, reserved for the great successes of his herbology career.

At least once a week, however, the peaceful family was broken up as Frank and Alice Longbottom, Neville's loving parents, joined the ranks of the Order of the Phoenix, to participate in weekly meetings and updates. Sometimes, however, they were called to action and left their quiet home to rejoin the efforts to battle and defeat He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his army of ferocious Death Eaters. Every so often they were faced with hordes of Inferi, groups of bloodthirsty giants, blundering and dangerous ogres, and flocks of hungry dementors.

Each time Frank and Alice left, a depressing hush fell about the otherwise lively house. The many relatives who inhabited the sprawling estate, whether in its remote cottages or as permanent guests in the manor, tended to converge upon the young Neville, seeking to comfort him, although he never seemed to understand why. The absence of his parents was punctuated with periods of intense anxiety, followed by gaps of silence that stretched uncertainly into dawn.

When the pair returned, often early the next morning, bedraggled and tired, a fierce sort of pride and cheer returned to the home. Hugs and kisses were exchanged, and Neville regrouped with his parents as if it had only been a minute since their departure. Although Frank and Alice seemed quite at peace amongst the grandparents, uncles, second-cousins, and great-aunts, their faces were marred with the memories of those who had fallen, for each time, there were some. They played with Neville, eager to show them his flourishing banana tree. But when he was lain to rest at night, the stories of the last battle were told.

"Benjy Fenwick," murmured Alice. "Blasted to pieces by the Death Eaters—they only found bits and pieces of him," she added sadly, tears dripping from her eyes. "He was the best damn Metamorphagus we had!" At these words she burst into tears. Frank held her close, waiting for the sobbing to subside into heavy, broken breathing.

"They killed Marlene, too. Marlene McKinnon," he added.

"I went to school with her father," offered Grandma Augusta. "Nice fellow. Greengrocer, right? Yes, I know the family." Her eyes flicked downwards, as if in mourning. She and the rest of the family waited respectfully until the pair found themselves able to continue.

Finally, Alice said, "It was awful. Usually we can take care of the Death Eaters fairly quickly. Except for the inner circle, they're a band of untrained, idiotic, blundering—" Frank patted her gently on the shoulder. "In any case, we had a harder time. They sent in multitudes of reinforcements. They overwhelmed us—that's why Benjy and Marlene are gone." Her shoulders shook and she buried her face in her hands. "I just wish this war would end."

Murmurs of assent were emitted around the room.

"It's a bloody nasty fight," agreed Uncle Algie.

"The worst in history," said Great-Aunt Roxanne, moving to comfort Alice.

"It's a brave, honorable thing you two are doing. I'm proud to be in your family," whispered another voice,

"We're proud," was the general assent. Then the family, protective, loving, and as sometimes dysfunctional as it was, lifted itself from its weary haunches and congregated around the couple, trying to calm the growing panic that chilled their souls.

* * *

><p>Severus Snape marched purposefully towards the exit of the Hog's Head Inn. The owner, standing behind the barcounter, stared after him, his face collapsing into a knowing frown. Setting down the glass he was polishing (albeit with a dirty washcloth), he called after him.<p>

"Where've _you_ been, Snape?" he asked, spitting out the name as if it left an unpleasant, nasty taste in his mouth.

Slowly, the cloaked figure of Severus Snape turned to face his confronter. He plastered a forced, weak smile across his face.

"Merely checking that my room was locked," he replied slowly, forming the words carefully, as though each phrase he finished pained him deeply. "It was."

"Oh?" grunted the owner, leaning against the counter. "Is that really what you were up to?"

"Yes," spat Snape. "If you'll excuse me…"

"Don't go sneaking about my inn, you hear? There's consequences to prying, you know? I don't fancy your type hanging about my establishment."

"I don't intend to for very much longer. You needn't worry."

"Hey—wait, Snape! How's your left arm been feeling recently?" Aberforth yelled.

Again, Snape turned slowly. His eyes met those of his aggressor—his black ones boring into sharp, blue, curious ones.

"Quite alright, _thank you_. I'll be on my way, now."

Throwing the door open, Snape left the Hog's Head, a growing feeling of—what was that? _Guilt?_—rising in the pit of his stomach. With a loud crack, he was gone, the spot where his body had been, just moments before, empty and cold.

* * *

><p>Aberforth and Albus Dumbledore were, admittedly, brothers, but they rarely saw each other or spoke to one another on business other than that of the Order of the Phoenix—and if they did, their speech was stunted and awkward, from lack of practice.<p>

When Albus reached the bottom of the stairs, he found the front room of the inn empty, save for the figure of his brother, working tirelessly and carefully, behind the counter.

"Hello, Aberforth," he said softly. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Albus," acknowledged his brother gruffly. "Listen, I'll expect you'd like to know that Snape just waltzed downstairs a few minutes ago. Fed me some crap about checking to see that his door was locked—but tell me, were you and…Sybill, was it?—discussing something of any importance? Because quite honestly…"

"Snape? Severus Snape?" questioned Albus calmly.

"Yes, the Death Eater one."

"We really don't know, Aberforth, it's merely speculation…"

"But since when have you ever been wrong, eh? Answer me that? All our lives you've been on top, you've followed your instincts and beliefs and it's all been…_right_. If you think this Snape bloke is a Death Eater, it's probably because he is. Though why, if you know that, you advised me to let him _stay_ here is beyond my reach." Aberforth took a long, straggling breath.

"I must impress upon you that these are, in fact, only my thoughts. My theories _have_ been wrong, they've been mistakes—trust me. Dear brother, I don't think that we can judge potentially innocent people based off of _speculation_. That is why I requested you give him the benefit of the doubt—I was ever so pleased when I found you'd obliged me."

"It's no problem for me," replied Aberforth gruffly. "But keep your secrets safe. He's probably aching to lend some valuable information to that master of his—and this is just the place to find it." He set the glass and soapy rag on the cracked, worn counter. "Listen, Albus. You know as well as I that this war's not a fluke. Diplomacy is useless. Lives will be lost. We've got to keep our heads, trust our instincts. And if your instincts are telling you that Snape's not a man to be trusted, then we shouldn't trust him."

A faint smile playing across his lips, Albus said,

"Oh, Aberforth, I never did say he was untrustworthy. I merely implied that he might be a Death Eater."


	2. Frank and Alice

"My lord…my lord…I have received news of the utmost importance," murmured a man, clad in batlike, black robes, bowing in front of a tall, pale man.

"News?" A high, cold voice emanated from the mouth of the tall man.

"Yes, my lord. All the answers."

"The answers?" He leaned forwards in his seat. "Go on, Severus. I don't doubt you won't disappoint me." He waited, stroking the long, thick snake at his right.

"I was in Hogsmeade. At the Hog's Head."

"That name has no meaning to me. Do explain."

"It is the inn and pub of Aberforth. Aberforth Dumbledore."

A low chuckle escaped from the seated man. "Aberforth Dumbledore? Albus Dumbledore's little brother? Always overshadowed, always a disappointment, compared to his precious older brother…" He cackled outright, his pale face glowing uncharacteristically.

"My lord…there is a prophecy."

The other man's eyes widened. "A prophecy?"

"Yes, my lord. A prophecy."

"Of which I am the subject, I assume," he said, his face devoid of emotion.

"You are the subject," admitted the standing man. "But you are not the only subject."

"Oh?" he hissed.

"You and a young boy. A young boy who was born as the seventh month died…"

* * *

><p>Neville became a plump toddler, his mop of dark, curly hair flopping at odd angles on his head, his grin broad and toothy, his grey eyes sparkling, and his cheeks a rosy pink, flushed with life.<p>

The love of his doting family had not ebbed—instead, it had strengthened. As the war grew in size and power, Frank and Alice were more often than not called away to the Order to help protect the wizarding world, leaving Neville in the care of his extensive family. His first birthday was celebrated in the shadow of the largest battle of the entire fight, in which five members of the Order had been killed. His parents were quiet and solemn throughout, only briefly boasting conservative smiles.

The months flew by. Neville's passion for flora only grew. The war grew in size and magnitude, and Frank and Alice's sad faces became a permanent fixture of the manor. The young boy developed a passion for Quidditch, which he practiced with aging Uncle Algie in the backyard, much to his grandmother's dismay.

"You'll scuff up Neville's creeping grass!" was the final cry, but when she found she could not stop them, his grandmother took to watching from the kitchen window. The swooping broomsticks brought back lovely memories and the little boy's obvious talent was a pleasure to watch. However, Neville's first words were "Uncle Algie's lost a toe." Perhaps Quidditch was not the game to play…

August moved to September, and September to October. The nights grew significantly chillier. The little boy was swaddled in puffy cloaks and ski jackets. Scarves were wrapped around his head and neck, giving the impression that he was a small Inuit boy. The only indication that he was not, in fact, of North American descent, was the sweet English lilt that accented his voice every time he spoke.

The end of October drew nearer. Neville developed a campaign to join the Muggle children during All Hallow's Eve. "I could be a Quidditch player," he suggested. "Gwenog Jones." His ideas, although quickly shot down by his attentive parents, were encouraged by his other relatives. It was decided, the little boy's displeasure, that Halloween would instead be spent indoors.

They finally put Neville to bed at half-past 11:00. He had struggled admirably to remain awake with the "grown-ups," but once it was found that they were all retiring, as well, to their remote cottages and guest rooms and couches, Neville had allowed himself to be carried upstairs by his weary father and rocked to sleep by his mother, who yawned as she sang an old lullaby.

When his eyes closed and his consciousness slipped into the realm of the dreaming, Neville dreamt of snakes. He'd never particularly hated snakes before, but at the thought of these ones, his sleeping blood ran cold. Ones with huge fangs, bigger than his face, and blood dripping everywhere…he awoke with a scream.

* * *

><p>"Alice, Alice, get Neville and run! I'll fight him off!"<p>

It was his father's voice.

"No, Frank! Come, we'll go together."

"Alice, no. I've got to help the others. _Go!_"

Neville's eyes shot wide open. He struggled in his crib. The only thought in his mind was that perhaps they were going to go trick-or-treating with the Muggle children. Then he wondered if they'd gotten a Quidditch costume for him.

His mother swept him from the bed. Sobbing, she clutched him to her chest. So afraid, so afraid.

"Neville, promise me you'll be okay," she said quietly. "Promise mummy you'll be alright." The infant boy, sensing Alice's urgency, nodded sleepily, his head resting on his mother's shoulder.

"I'll be alright, mummy," he replied. "Don't worry."

There was a bang and a yell from the hallway approaching Neville's room. Alice gave a squeak of terror. She realized with a clamor of terror that she did not have the energy to Disapparate. The only means of transport, she saw, her hopes slipping, was Neville's toy broom—but the enchantments put about the manor would hardly let that through. She was trapped, she realized, amongst her own protection.

The door to the boy's room swung open.

"Alice, Alice," said a high, cold voice. "You silly girl."

"No, please!" she screamed.

The man before her was clad in dark, sweeping robes. His face was pale white, and his eyes shone bright red. In the place of a nose were two slits. His lips, pale and cracked, moved slowly.

"It is not you I wish to…dispose of…tonight." The blood red eyes swiveled towards Neville.

"No! Not my Neville!" Alice wrapped the little boy tighter in her grip. His were now wide open. "Take my life, but spare Neville!"

"It is not your life I desire."

"Tell me why!" screamed the desperate mother.

"There is a prophecy. I must destroy him before his power becomes too great. You already see him as a talented wizard, a young, gifted warlock. I cannot let him grow." The Dark Lord smiled benevolently. "But I can let you live. You can join my side. Your husband has fallen—" Alice gave a shriek of terror and grief— "but I can assure you that you will be well taken care of. Malfoy Manor has always been…a welcoming home."

"NEVER!" she sobbed. "Never, never, _never_."

"Step aside, silly girl," said Voldemort.

"_No!_" she cried, tears running down her face. "No! If you want Neville, you'll have to go through me first." Alice raised her wand.

"_Protego!"_ she cried, as the man sent a first hex her way. It bounced off the bubble of protection she'd created, bouncing about the room, until it finally found the door and shot down the hallway. Even though the spell had saved her this time, she knew that it wound not save her against the Unforgivable Curses…

"Let go of the boy and all is forgiven," yelled the Dark Lord…Voldemort, over the bangs and yells from downstairs. "Let go of the boy and all your dreams will come true…your husband will return, he will join you, and so will Neville. Let go and it will be so much easier…"

Alice felt her grip slackening on Neville, and her wand. Sweat poured down her face, plastering her hair to her skull. She _couldn't_ let go. She _wouldn't_ let go. It took her a moment to gather her wits. Voldemort stared at her, disgusted.

When she looked up, she smiled. Raising her wand, she screamed,

"FOR FRANK!" A jet of bright red light shot from her wand, hitting the Dark Lord square in the chest. Voldemort stumbled backwards, an expression of pure shock written on his face. He fell backwards into the wall and crumbled to the floor.

Alice crumpled on the floor, the momentary power draining from her. She threw her body over Neville, protecting him from the recovered, advancing wizard she knew now would show no mercy. And she wanted none for herself. She only hoped that Neville would be okay. Neville, her baby Neville.

Tears streaked down her dirty cheeks. Images of her life flashed before her. Hogwarts. Her family. Frank. The manor. Neville. The Order. Her ideals faltered, her morals bent double in pain; but her love of them; of Frank, of Neville, of her world—stayed strong.

When the flash of green light came, she was ready.


	3. The Shedding of Tears

"Harry, darling, let Neville play," coaxed Lily Potter, her bright green eyes shining with love. "Share, boys," she prompted.

The black-haired boy at her feet grunted unhappily. "Mummy!" he squealed. "_Issmitoy."_

"I know it's your toy, Harry," she said calmly, lifting him into her arms. "But you've got to share with your brother Neville."

Squirming, Harry detached himself from his mother and, grudgingly, allowed the small boy opposite him to take the hovering, magic broomstick from his plump hands.

Neville, with a shout of pure, unobstructed joy, swung his leg over one side of the broom and pushed off from the floor. Zigzagging between chair legs and

James wandered over to Lily, placing a rough, callused hand on her slight shoulder.

"They're acting just like brothers—greedy, self-centered, and controlling," he said, grinning. "But they do love each other, don't they?"

"No doubt," murmured Lily, her eyes misting over. "We all do."

The years passed. Harry and Neville Potter grew to become the most loyal of brothers. Lily and James watched them, love and pride in their eyes. For they remembered, as clearly as if it were yesterday, the night that Neville had come to them.

* * *

><p>"Lily, there's somebody at the door," said James Potter groggily, stroking the small of his wife's back. They had only just fallen asleep, after hours of love-making.<p>

"It's impossible," replied Lily, wiping the sleep from her eyes. "The Fidelius disallows anyone save Dumbledore and Minerva to visit here."

"I heard it," pressed James. He lifted himself from the bed, and, dressing his naked body in flannel pajamas, he made his way downstairs.

Curious, Lily, wrapping herself in a thick fleece bathrobe, hurried to follow her husband, past Harry's room, down the stairs, and into the front hallway. She stopped.

James stood, shellshocked, at the threshold. The open door blocked sight of whatever was on the other side, so Lily hurried to James's side, her bare feet padding on the cold wooden floorboards.

"_Hagrid?_" she exclaimed.

"Lily," he grunted. She stared into his small eyes and saw tears dripping down his bristly cheeks. His hefty size and weight had made him seem impervious to feelings, but as his large shoulders shook and his face, red where there was no hair, crumpled in anguish, Lily realized that there was nothing farther from the truth than her earlier assumption.

"Hagrid," Lily repeated, this time gently, her face soft with fondness. Why was he so upset, she wondered? Glancing at her husband's stricken face, she followed his gaze to Hagrid's thick, muscular arms, in which was cradled a small bundle, swaddled in cloth.

"Hagrid," she said, for the third time, "what…" Lily let her eyes rest on the…_thing…_in his arms.

"It's _Neville_, Lily," he said, choking on his own sobs. "Frank and Alice's boy. Neville," Hagrid repeated, crying in earnest. "'E _survived_."

"Survived? _Survived?_" she screamed. "Survived _what?_"

"Vol'dmort," he said gruffly. "Came to thur place in the night…and killed ever'one."

Lily fell against her husband, a hand flying to her chest. James wrapped his arms around her protectively, supporting her, even as his own mind raced with helpless thoughts, each as terrible as the next.

"Flew up to the Lake District, he did," whispered Hagrid.

"But the Fidelius!" James sputtered. "It's not…no, impossible…"

"They was betrayed," intoned the half-giant gravely. "By Caradoc."

"NO!" shrieked Lily, pushing her husband away. "NO!"

"Lily!" shouted James, pulling her back into his arms. She struggled fiercely, trying to get a hold on something—anything—to throw, as far as she could. Only when she watched in shatter would she be appeased, Lily realized. Only when she felt glass cut into her soft flesh would she allow the grief—a tormented peace, devoid of violence—to consume her. Only then would she succumb to silence.

Her husband pulled her to a rest. She collapsed, hugging him, feeling his muscles release their built-up tension, and felt him return the hug, as fiercely as she had tried to escape him.

Breaking apart, they turned to look at the muted gamekeeper standing in their doorway. His eyes, wet with a fresh round of tears, seemed to say that they were not alone in these powerful emotions. Lifting his arms, he held the bundle out towards them.

The face of a sleeping, untroubled baby peeked from the folds of cloth. Lily felt her consciousness slip away, felt her body preparing itself for the fall, and then the blackness. But she pulled herself from the depths of her sorrow and instead opened her arms.

Hagrid placed the baby in her arms. Lily cradled him, her gentle spirit, that of an irrepressible mother, winning over.

"Neville," she cooed, the last of her tears streaming onto his plump, rosy cheeks. "_Neville_," she breathed again, and clutched him to her chest.

"Dumbled'ore asks you to keep him," said the half-giant. "'E says you're the only ones what can," he added nervously. "'Ceptin' my cabin, there's no person nor family what can take 'im. Summat of a problem."

James nodded. A glance at his wife sealed the decision he'd made in his head just a second before.

"We'll take him. We'll raise him as our own son," he whispered, pulling his wife, and Neville, into a warm embrace.

Lily looked up for the first time upon her sight of the child's face.

"What happened to…him?" she asked cautiously, rocking Neville back and forth. Lily felt the tears rise, expecting the only answer she'd heard for years: that there was no hope. That their world really would be overrun with evil.

Hagrid needed not to ask of who she spoke. "Gone," he said simply. "Gone."

* * *

><p>It was at moments like these, when they all felt the most comfortable, that Lily wondered if she could ever fill the empty space in Neville's young heart. Although he did not remember the most defining moment of his life, the aftershock would surely catch up to the Potter family one day.<p>

And who could tell what would happen then?


	4. The Potter Boys

"Neville, Harry, give it a rest!" exclaimed Lily Potter, exasperatedly. "How many times do I have to ask…?" She set _Household Spells for the Worn and Weary_ back on its shelf in Florish and Blott's, giving the toy boys beside her withering looks.

"That bloke over there with the blond hair pushed Neville!" said Harry indignantly. "What was I supposed to do, just let him get away with it?" He punched Neville lightly in the shoulder, his expression softening. "Only I get to mess about with _Neville_."

His brother grinned affectionately. "That's right, Potter," he said. "Throw a punch at me, and you'll be sorry." They tussled for a few seconds, pushing and shoving each other gently, playing at wrestling.

"Boys," sighed Lily hopelessly, and drifted further into the shop, leaving the two brothers to examine Quidditch books and laugh at ridiculous, crude Wizards' Duel manuals. Although she could barely cope with their boisterousness, she found herself smiling at their childish humor—it was only fitting that they would grow up so close, and so…_immature._

* * *

><p>Diagon Alley, Ginny Weasley thought, was perhaps the most marvelous place on earth. There wasn't a moment that passed that she inwardly exclaimed at the brilliant storefronts, each as splendid and lavish as the next.<p>

"Ronald, slow down!" yelped her mother. Clutching tightly to Ginny's small, pale hand, she pressed forward through the crowd of shopping witches and wizards, trying to keep up with her son. The only visible means of tracking him was the shock of red hair that bounced, as if buoyed, by some mysterious force, between and below the shoulders of the many wizarding folk who crowded the shopping center. Ginny was happy to be dragged along—the street never failed to produce endless sources of amusement.

"_Ronald Weasley_," chided Mrs. Weasley angrily. "You can't simply _wander off_ by yourself. I must always be able to see you, and you me, if I'm ever to bring you here again. Why, even Ginevra—" Ginny looked up at the mention of her name, surprised by her mother's formality: Mrs. Weasley only used their full names in times of great frustration—"Even Ginevra, a year your junior, has managed to stay by my side."

Ron shuffled, embarrassed and irritated, next to his sister. "Sorry, Mum."

"Damn right you're sorry!" she shrieked. "Now, give me your hand, and we'll be off to Madam Malkin's for your fitting."

The mother led the two children forward through the crowd.

* * *

><p>"Mrs. Potter, please attempt to control your sons," said the tailor. "It's hard enough to try and fit boys of their age at all, but when they're <em>wiggling<em>…"

"Will you stop writhing? It'll never be finished if you don't stop moving," said Lily.

"Yeah, Harry, stop writhing," laughed Neville. The boys laughed at the sexual joke—a new field of crudity that they'd only recently discovered.

Lily rolled her eyes. Madam Malkin, who was sticking pins into the boys' new robes, gave a disapproving cluck.

"We'll be here all year," groaned Lily.

"I certainly _hope_ not," muttered Madam Malkin.

* * *

><p>The door swung shut behind the group of three. Mrs. Weasley, firmly grasping her children's hands, stood staunchly in the doorway, her face set in determination.<p>

"We'll be leaving here with your robes, nicely made," she said, "Whether you like it or not, Ronald."

Ginny muffled a laugh as Ron's ears turned a brilliant shade of pink. Noticing her laughter, he shoved her. Toppling into a pile of neatly stacked boxes, she let out a shriek of terror. Her mother's iron grip was the only thing that kept her from disappearing beneath the wave of packets.

"What did I _say_, Ronald?" she said, more irritated than angry. "Don't push your luck, young man." With a wave of her wand, the pile reformed itself cleanly. Ginny, brushing off imaginary dust and patting nonexistent wounds, stuck her tongue out at her brother. He scowled, but there was nothing he could do.

"Hullo, hullo, welcome to Madam Malkin's!" came a voice from the front of the room, sectioned off by curtains.

A petite, bony figure appeared, toting a bag filled with what looked like the remainders of a bat corpse. Shuddering, Ginny waited for her mother's reply.

"Hello, Madam," said Mrs. Weasley politely. "I'm here to fit my son for school robes…"

"Join the party," said Madam Malkin wearily. "Behind the curtains, yes," she added, pointing the Weasley group towards a gap in the drapes. Ginny, Ron, and their mother proceeded towards the back of the room—the children, fidgeting, bored already.

Ginny's mother pushed aside the curtains, and, tugging her children behind her, sat on the waiting chairs. "You there, Ron, and Ginny, on my other side," she muttered, wisely separating the battling siblings.

Looking up, she cried "Lily!"

Copying her mother, Ginny's eyes flicked up. Her mother had risen from her seat and was smiling happily at the trio of people in front of them—two boys, both black-haired, on the fitting stands, and a woman who was in all likeliness their mother, a redheaded lady with brilliant green eyes.

"It's Harry and Neville!" exclaimed Ron.

The two boys clambered from their positions on the stage-like fitting podium, to greet Ron.

Ginny felt the blood rush to her face. The Potters?

Her family and the Potters were close—almost inseparable. Ron seemed practically to live at their house, just a few minutes away, walking, from theirs, in the rural English countryside. They, in turn, frequently ate dinner at the Burrow, the affectionate name for the Weasley home—Lily and Mrs. Weasley were the closest of friends.

But it was always awkward for the young Weasley girl to spend time with the Potter family. They were a loving family—Lily and James she considered almost like second parents. In that respect, there was no problem.

But when it came to their sons, Ginny always felt a little trapped.

Trapped by powerful emotion that was young love.


	5. Observation

Neville Potter grinned.

"Ron!" he shrieked, clambering down from the uncomfortable fitting stand.

"Neville, Harry!" replied the redheaded boy running towards them, his freckly, pale face illuminated in the fluorescent light of the tailor shop.

His brother, Harry, followed quickly, joining the two friends, forming the inseparable trio that was apt to regroup on a daily basis. Forming a tight, practically unbreakable triangle, the three boys began to talk. Skipping over the incessant formalities often enacted by their parents, the boys proceeded to discuss more pressing matters—the start of the Quidditch season.

"You reckon Radoja's gonna make his mark?" asked Ron.

"I think so. All bets on the Chudley Cannons," added Harry.

"What about Puddlemere United?" demanded Neville. "They one last year's England Cup, I reckon they'll do it again. 'Specially since they've got Daniel Smith Chasing now."

"They signed Smith? Yeah, that definitely gives them an advantage, Smith's supposed to be the best player in Europe! I bet by next season he'll have left Puddlemere for the Wasps," Ron said.

"Five Knuts he doesn't," pressed Neville.

And so their deep, meaningful conversation continued, eventually breaching other, equally important topics, like their own favorite past-time of catching frogs and unknowing grasshoppers in the large fields separating their two houses.

* * *

><p>It was then that Neville spotted Ron's sister.<p>

Seated in the far corner of the draped-off section, she stared, lonely, at the three boys. Her mother was speaking animatedly with his, something about the effects of the garden gnomes that inhabited the Weasleys' garden on their yearly produce and her children's swear vocabulary.

"Hey, Ginny," he said kindly.

He didn't notice the tips of her ears turn a decided red. If he had, Neville would've realized something was up, for that was Ron's way of showing his embarrassment—but, obtuse as ever in the realms of feelings and emotions, he returned to his brother's and friend's important conversation without further thought.

* * *

><p>Ginny sat. Only when Neville's eyes met hers did she feel as if she were not alone. His murmured greeting—the way he said her name!—seemed to her the best gift she'd ever received. His soft, brown eyes, the curve of his nose, the dimples in his cheeks when he smiled—<em>his smile! <em>Ginny was completely captivated.

Smiling quietly to herself, she imagined a world in which she and Neville danced in the moonlight. It had always been her hope to be in love with someone who'd be willing to do this with her—if only to prove that they weren't embarrassed to love her.

And Neville! Neville was the Boy Who Lived—the savior of her world, of the _entire _world. Even when he was a baby, he had proved himself worthy of the utmost respect—and love. He had grown into a kind, boisterous, and handsome eleven-year-old boy, and it was all Ginny could do to stop herself from running over and wrapping her skinny arms about his lanky, supple frame.

But Neville Potter had not become a brat because of it. In fact, he was perhaps more humble because of it. A hero in his own era, Neville Potter was the epitome of all that was good, wonderful, and brave in the world. Grinning to herself, Ginny wondered if he'd even realized the impact he'd had on the world. He had grown up protected from the fame incited by his past. She hoped that Neville, once exposed to the ravenous media (the Daily Prophet most prominent among them) would retain his fine attributes, and didn't let the spotlight wash away any trace of his previous qualities.

Her eyes drifted, of their own accord, to Neville's brother's face. Harry. Harry Potter. Neville's decidedly less amazing brother. But in his eyes—the eyes of his mother, she thought with a sigh of pleasure—there was a fire of determination, burning as bright as if they had risen from the ashes of Floo powder. She saw something in him beyond his crude, young self—something that Ginny could see making him into the greatest man alive.

Swinging her feet, Ginny watched as the tottering Madam Malkin returned, armed with more needles, more long, black cloth, and the tote bag full of bat wings.

* * *

><p>Lily Potter had always loved Ginny Weasley, perhaps because she herself had not borne a daughter. All in all, it was very possible that she <em>could…<em>she had given birth to Harry, a mere month after she'd turned seventeen (she and James had been quite active in Hogwarts, she thought with a chuckle.) But Ginny was a sweet girl, who dealt with her brothers as tolerably as they were cruel to her—always finding ways to confuse and addle her brain.

She noticed Ginny, sitting by herself, gazing morosely at the group of boys, only a year her senior, who deigned (unfortunately) not to include her in their games. Lily also noticed that her eyes fixed almost solely on her son Neville.

Neville, Neville, Neville. It was often easier to say that he and Harry were twins—they were born on the same day—the last day of July—within hours of each other. They did, in fact, look the part—save Neville's telltale lightning-shaped scar, and his hazel-brown eyes, they could very well have been brothers. He had grown into an appealing, kind young boy, who she was proud to have as a son, just as much as she was proud to have Harry. Their resemblance was hardly the most wonderful thing about either of them; Neville's past was enough to deign that he would be famous.

She bowed her head. Famous because of the murders of his biological parents. Famous because of the evil of a man whose name none expect the surviving members of the Order of the Phoenix dared to speak. And even some from the secret society dreaded mention of him...for he had been the true embodiment of evil.

Letting Mrs. Weasley wander off to find Madam Malkin, who was certainly taking her time with those bat-wing caps, Lily allowed herself to watch Ginny. She could almost read the ten-year-old's thoughts: Neville was a very handsome boy. Grinning to herself, Lily found that she was pleased with the situation, and could only hope that things turned out well—whatever "well" meant.

* * *

><p>Harry found his thoughts wandering from the topic of conversation. He glanced over at his mother. Seeing that she was simply staring into space, he followed her eye-path towards…Ginny.<p>

Ginny Weasley, Ron's little sister. Or, as he often called her, his "broster." Because she so often desired to join in their games (to which Ron had said no, absolutely, forever) Ron had deemed that she was simply wishing that she were a boy…hence the name "broster."

He'd often found himself wishing that Ron went a bit easier on her. It was obvious that he loved her…however, Ron wasn't the sentimental type, and Harry was hard-pressed to remember a single moment in which he'd said it outright—Ron instead preferred to show his fondness via teasing. Still, Harry longed to comfort the girl after one of Ron's more hurtful bouts of teasing.

But it wouldn't do. Ron would mark him as an outsider, and Neville…it was hard to know what Neville would do. Although the pair had developed a sort of telepathic system—they could practically understand each other's thoughts—he realized that this was one area in which Harry had no idea of Neville's reaction.

Shaking his mind of these thoughts, Harry returned to the topic at hand—tricking their way onto the Gryffindor Quidditch team.


	6. Farewell Feelings & Foreboding

"You'll see Neville and Harry at the platform!" huffed Mrs. Weasley, irritated. "Fred, George, Percy!" she called. "We're leaving in a minute!"

Muffled replies tumbled down the stairs. She nodded, satisfied, and returned to Ron, whose face was scrunched in his usual whining expression.

"I said, no! Lily doesn't need the extra burden what with having two boisterous boys and a swelling stomach, and we simply don't have enough room in your father's car." These last words she uttered scathingly—Mrs. Weasley was no fan of her husband's Ford Anglia.

"Fine," grumbled Ron, charging up the stairs to his room. Ginny followed him up, wishing she could help him.

"Stop following me, Ginny!" shouted Ron angrily, stomping to his bedroom. "It's annoying enough when you're with my friends and you want to butt in on everything, but please give me some peace otherwise!"

"I only wanted to help…" she murmured sadly, feeling her heart sink.

Ron stopped, and turned to face her, his visage softening in regret. "I'm sorry, Gin," he said gently. "Really, I am." He opened the door to his room for her, and she stepped in, aware of the privilege she was now experiencing—Ron rarely allowed anyone (except for Harry and Neville, of course) into his lair.

It was surprisingly neat. His trunk was packed on the bed. Dressed in his usual Muggle clothing, wand protruding from his pocket, hair ruffled slightly, he appeared to Ginny very handsome. Smiling, she thought of Neville, and Harry. Their kind of handsome was very different from Ron's…much more pronounced, she decided. And in any case, she _definitely _didn't have a crush on her brother. Giggling at the mere thought, she helped Ron heft the heavy trunk and slide it downstairs. As it bumped on the steps, and as Ron, and Fred and George, who had joined them to watch the trunk's sendoff, laughed, she allowed her thoughts to wander to the pleasantly consuming topic of the Potter boys.

* * *

><p>"Listen to your mother, boys," said James, struggling to hide his smile.<p>

Lily Potter glared at her two sons. "You think this is funny?" she yelped. Her husband's grin quickly disappeared, although he stood beyond the reach of her peripheral vision. "Well, it's not!" She stomped her foot, hoping for some kind of response.

In fact, it was very funny. Harry and Neville Potter had taken it upon themselves to release the entire contents of the Potter grounds' garden gnomes into the house. All of whom had subsequently destroyed the powder room. And covered it with their own droppings.

Although James had quickly fixed the damage with a wave of his wand, Lily was beyond furious. It was all very fine and well that her husband could fix it up in a flash, but Lily did NOT want to teach her sons that all problems were solvable by magic. Hers certainly hadn't been. They didn't need to go about with that "Magic is Might" Ministry quip, acting like some fool Hufflepuffs. Mind is might, she corrected in her own mind. But Harry and Neville needed a lesson.

"Grounded!" she spat. "For…for…two months!" Grinning, she slid her hands in her pockets, waiting for their inevitable shocked response.

Instead, she was greeted with chuckles and broad smiles. Lily froze. Chuckling at the largest sentence they had received, ever? What? Even angrier than before, she added, "If two months isn't good enough for you, how about twelve?" When she heard James's laughter behind her, though, she knew something was up. Fuming, she turned around to chew him out for his lack of help. But she stopped when she saw his broad, childish grin. He was pointing to the large clock on the wall next to the kitchen door.

"We're going to be late for the Hogwarts Express," James prompted. "That will take the boys to _boarding school…_"

All hell broke loose.

* * *

><p>When Lily Potter had learned of her pregnancy, she was overjoyed. James was considerably less pleased: "Two boys already, Lily, and another one on the way?"<p>

But Lily was determined that this baby should be a girl. It _would _be. And when the Healer had affirmed her dream, she was over the moon with happiness. When the Healer had also added that there was not one, not two, but _three _girls growing in her belly, her joy had known no bounds.

James, not so much.

"Let me get this straight, Lily," he'd said. "Three girls. Three girls? How could we ever…it's…we only earn so much!" James finished his search for words triumphantly. "I mean, one girl, maybe. Two girls, iffy. But three? Three girls? No. We just can't." He shook his head. "Where's the space in the house? We only have four bedrooms. One for us, one for the two boys, and one for guests."

"Oh, James…" she sighed. "You _do _know about magical renovations, right? The Burrow..."

"No, no!" he pressed on. "You and I are both Aurors, and top ones at that…meaning we have stable, high salaries that can afford to keep this family of ours fed." Lily grinned in victory. "But," James added, "I mean our family of four, right now. Add three little babies—baby _girls_—" He nodded wisely, as if their gender made any difference, "—and we'll be underwater."

Lily laughed. She was pleased with her husband, because he was pleased with himself for this argument, but he hadn't thought about it as clearly as she had. Since she herself wasn't willing to give up these three girls, by abortion or by adoption, Lily had had to find a way to support them.

"You and I, we each bring in about ten thousand Galleons a year," said James had said, confused with his wife's laughter. "It's not funny, Lily, we'll be broke…"

"But I've got a raise!" she exclaimed. "I've been promoted. To Head of the Department of Investigations of War Crimes," Lily added. "It's all very plain and simple—I'll be bringing in _twice_ the amount I have in the past; in short, twenty thousand Galleons per annum."

James grunted. He didn't like being passed over for a job, especially a job of that salary and magnitude, especially since his own wife would be earning more money than he was in 365 days. But it was still his family's money. And at least that fool Cornelius Fudge wasn't getting it, with his uncle as Minister and all...he was the biggest joke in the Auror department, as opposed to his and Lily's renown as members of the Order.

And he would soon be the proud father of three young witches.

* * *

><p>King's Cross Station was full to the brim of magical sorts—blending in as best they could with Muggle commuters. Some, however, failed miserably, choosing to don colonial-style dresses and powdered wigs (they obviously hadn't read the latest style magazines—a bit last-season, eh?), and others, Hawaiian polo shirts with spandex shorts…but the Potter family managed to remain quite neutral.<p>

"Mum, can we please go and find Ron?" asked Harry plaintively.

"No, Harry," she said firmly, "Nope." Determined to exact her punishment for the boys' earlier gnome-centric escapade, she was pleased to be able to restrict them in at least this manner.

He and Neville exchanged sordid looks. "Don't whine!" she warned. "It'll only made it worse."

"Harry, Neville!" called a voice. A voice that belonged to a redheaded, freckled boy charging through the Muggle crowd at breakneck speed, pulling his luggage behind him.

Their sullen faces lit up.

Lily wanted to kick herself. She should've realized that if her boys couldn't find the Weasley group, the Weasleys would certainly find _them_. James gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder; Lily brushed it off. There seemed to be nothing she could do anymore to control her little boys...her Hogwarts boys...any more. Feeling tears come to her eyes, she leaned against James, wishing they were still the happy, _almost _harmless little five-year-olds they'd been just six years ago.

Maybe it was selfish, but Lily Potter didn't want to let her boys go.

* * *

><p>"Through the barrier you go," said Mrs. Weasley. Percy plowed straight towards the brick wall, disappearing quite suddenly. Fred and George followed suit. Finally, she and Ginny disappeared. Ron and his father were waiting for a group of Japanese Muggle tourists to pass when Ron gave out a great shout.<p>

"Harry, Neville!" he shrieked. Tugging his trunk, his broomstick, and his owl's cage behind him, Ron joined his friends. Mrs. Potter didn't seem to happy to see him, he noticed. What had Harry and Neville done _this _time?

Laughing, the boys breached the barrier quickly.

* * *

><p>Harry and Neville had never visited Platform 9 ¾ before…but Ron certainly had. Percy had already boarded the train to regroup with his girlfriend Penelope Clearwater, and Mrs. Weasley was kissing the twins goodbye. Ginny stood next to her mother, glancing over at the trio making their way towards them.<p>

The Potter boys were enthralled. Smoke, steam, and farewell shouts reverberated about the platform, creating a sort of perpetual echo, constantly bouncing off the walls. Lily Potter joined Mrs. Weasley, who patted her friends' stomach affectionately. The two fathers shook hands, and clapped each other on the back. All four had been members of the Order—and all four had developed an intense friendship with each other that had not faded through the years.

"Hey, there's the blond boy who pushed Neville!" exclaimed Harry angrily. "Yep, he's the one."

Ron glanced over at his two friends, shocked. "Draco Malfoy? Pushed Neville? When? Where?" He was anxious for the details.

"Diagon Alley," said Neville. "Whatever, let's not provoke him, he's hardly worth it…" He turned away from his friends, anxious not to spark a fight, and found himself face-to-face with Ginny Weasley.

"Hello," he said pleasantly. She grinned, blushing, and copied him.

"Nice to see you, Ginny," he said, and she responded with something of the same nature, stuttering lightly.

Suddenly, Neville found himself wanting to touch the younger girl in front of him. Battling with this sudden urge, he wondered why he would ever want to do such a thing. She probably felt the same way all girls did…soft, he expected—and she probably smelled nice, too. There was nothing really different about her than, say, his mum, except she was younger, about his age, and had fiery red hair, and deep chocolate eyes, and a sweet, broad smile...

"Well, see you at Christmas," he said abruptly. Ginny's face fell the tiniest bit, but soon she hitched up a kind smile, and nodded. Neville felt bad for leaving her, but the feelings he'd felt had pained him. Ginny was Ron's _sister_. Why ever would he want to touch her?

* * *

><p>After their farewell hugs, kisses, and words had been exchanged, the Potter boys and Ron pushed their way towards the Hogwarts Express. Each felt a small pang of longing for their families, though none of them would admit it. They chose a compartment, and sat down.<p>

The exhilaration they'd felt earlier that morning drained, Harry, Ron, and Neville felt a collective sense of gloom—for what was there for them at Hogwarts?


	7. Hogwarts

The boys' starting apprehension quickly melted into pure excitement…for the loss of their parents' comforting embrace hardly compared to the new life they would gain. Neville, Ron, and Harry each felt the exhilaration that accompanied the whirring of the train on the tracks, the hissing and spitting of steam, the joyful students running at full tilt through the Express's passages…and each felt, with a sense of overpowering renewal, the happiness that is to be free.

When the sweet trolley rolled up to their compartment, each boy plopped a handful of candy on the plush seat next to them, and silently devoured their personal mound. Ron's was slightly smaller than both of the Potter boys', but neither Ron nor the two brothers dared broach the sensitive topic.

In an effort to reinstitute their comforting, familiar Quidditch conversations, Harry drew from his backpack a large biographical book, detailing the various successes and failures of Great Britain's National Team, on a player-personal level, as well. Enthralled by the scandal of the athletes' lives and the skill they managed to retain, the three boys set about, re-becoming the mischievous trio.

* * *

><p>Hardly an hour had passed when Fred and George slid open the door to their compartment and greeted them with their customary slaps on the back.<p>

"Neville, Harry," saluted Fred, clicking his heels.

"Pleasure to see you again. What's it been, eighteen hours?" added George.

"But Georgie…" complained his twin, "that would have been in the middle of the night."

"Precisely," answered George, and they both cackled with laughter.

On their chests glinted shiny prefects' badges. Though neither flaunted their new promotion from "civilian student" to militaristic general, they seemed to glow with the pride of being able to exact punishment and lavish privileges upon their enemies and friends. The twins liked Harry and Neville, considering them to be somewhat of their own brothers. Their mutual presence in each others' lives was unavoidable, and pleasant enough, although they had definitely not yet reached the point in which they squabbled, like siblings often do, amongst themselves.

"Ha, ha, point taken," muttered Neville.

"Well, you first years are certainly looking spiffy," said Fred. "Imagine that! A simple trip to Madam Malkin's can change the appearance of one's at-first unpleasant face. Fancy that, Georgie!" He clapped his hands merrily as Ron scowled at him.

"Just imagine the things we could do for poor Perce," joked George. "Fred, I think it's time we invested a little money into buying our lovely older brother a new set of robes."

Grinning, the twins left the compartment. Neville, Ron, and Harry stared after them uncomprehendingly. Usually when Fred and George visited the trio, they had something to gain from the experience. In this case, it was merely pleasure.

* * *

><p>Hagrid had been the first familiar face since their departure. None of the boys knew any others—their lives at the Burrow and at the Potter house had been quiet and removed from the hustle and bustle of the wizarding world at large.<p>

"Neville! Harry! Ron!" he exclaimed. "Good ter see yeh, I reckoned I would anyways."

The burly gamekeeper had often visited their quiet abodes on weekends and holidays, when his services weren't needed at the castle. Hagrid had showered them with gifts each visit, sometimes bringing the Quidditch-driven Harry and Ron snapshots from the last Hogwarts match, sometimes giving flora-focused Neville the Professor of Herbology's leftovers from her last lesson.

When he greeted them at Hogsmeade station, their last remaining worries Disapparated into the dense September mist.

* * *

><p>"I am pleased to welcome such a large group of new students to Hogwarts!" exclaimed the bearded man at the golden, winged podium. Albus Dumbledore, Neville thought. According to his parents, the source of all good in the world. Twiddling nervously with his thumbs, he waited for the Headmaster to continue in his grand welcoming speech.<p>

"Well, all I have left to say is: cheerio! And do please tuck into this lovely feast."

The Sorting, Neville thought, had gone perfectly. Dad had insisted that they'd join Gryffindor. His mum, although not as obviously, had been equally adamant. Neither put pressure on either of the boys, but it seemed so likely and so _right _that neither needed to protest; each felt it as deeply as their parents in their bones.

Ron's admittance into the group was not unexpected, either. He joined the Potter boys at the table, passing his older brother Percy and the twins, Fred and George, as he scurried down the long aisle to plop down anxiously on the bench next to them. They had each been casual about the event. None of them had even bothered to think about been Sorted into a different House until the Sorting Hat was placed on their heads and began to speak.

Now, Neville thought, he felt quite lucky to have joined the ranks of the bold and the brave—the Gryffindors—as opposed to having been forced to join Ravenclaw, or Slytherin, or worst of _all_, Hufflepuff. Gryffindor was decidedly the House for him, and the Sorting Hat had seen that as soon as it touched his head, quickly bellowing "Gryffindor!"

He had tottered dazedly after Harry, who had been Sorted only moments before, and had felt an immense sense of relief. Now, hearing the Headmaster speak, Neville was absolutely sure that Gryffindor was his House—any other situation was unthinkable.

* * *

><p>"Follow us, ye boisterous first years!" called George from the head of the Gryffindor table.<p>

"No need to worry," added Fred, beckoning them closer, "we'll ensure you only suffer minimal harm!"

Some of the Gryffindor first years balked at this suggestion, but seeming to want to live up to their Sorting's expectations, they followed the twins towards the set of great double-doors at the end of the Great Hall. Only Harry, Ron, and Neville seemed to understand that they were only joking. But joking for the twins meant a great deal more than for them. Nevertheless, they joined their fellow first years pushing to leave the crowded feast room.

The Slytherin group headed down the cold steps to the dungeon, Harry noticed, his face crinkling in disgust. From his father's description of the group, they were all evil and snide, just like that nasty git Draco Malfoy with the pale face and bleach blond hair.

"Neville, d'you reckon we could break into the Slytherin House?" he whispered.

"Harry…" sighed Neville. It was too late for this kind of speculation on his part. After eight o'clock, even Neville's mischievous spirits, alive, well, and thriving, started to yawn from exhaustion and over-exertion.

"Alright, alright," he muttered. Following Ron and Neville, the black-haired boy, amid his fellow first years. The night—the year, in fact—was still young, and there was still plenty of time to prank that foul-mouthed, evil twit. In the meantime, Harry reasoned, he should probably join his brother and friend in readying themselves for their first day of term.

* * *

><p>Hedwig, Juniper, and Frederick hooted in their cages. Harry, Ron, and Neville hadn't had time to take them to the Owlery—that pleasantry was scheduled for the next morning, after breakfast and before the start of classes. Neville, who had also brought Trevor, his toad, fixed up his aquarium and plopped the satisfied frog in the water.<p>

"What do you figure, boys?" asked Ron, leaning against the pillows of his newly made bed. "Reckon classes'll be hard?"

"Doubt it. Mum always said classes were easy for her, and Dad got pretty high marks," yawned Harry, pulling up his bedcover.

"I don't know..." said Neville. "Maybe things will have changed since their time, and in any case, we're not the same as our parents."

"Want to play some chess?" asked Ron. "Can't fall asleep."

The two other Gryffindor first year boys lifted their heads from their pillows. Quickly, the five boys separated into teams (Ron counted as two players, he was so good) and began the first game in a long series of competitions that would soon become a treasured ritual in the boys' dormitory. Outside, the sky was dark, broken only by the many glimmering stars that winked and shone, dancing to a tune all their own.


	8. Cheers & Jeers

Five girls and five four-poster-beds, squeezed into a small dormitory, is a recipe for talking—most obviously, gossip.

Although these five girls had only arrived at their new school a mere three hours ago, the excitement and the novelty of their situation allowed them to discuss, at lengths, the new life they would lead for the next seven years.

"Did you see? Vicky Frobisher—her family and my family are friends, you know—was Sorted into Ravenclaw! Her parents will be upset, Hufflepuffs to the core!" exclaimed Lavender Brown, flipping her long mane of blond-brown hair over her shoulder.

Parvati Patil, a bed over, giggled. "My parents didn't go to Hogwarts, they went to the New Dehli School of Magick. They didn't want to send me here, but since we live in Liverpool now…"

"Well, I like Gryffindor," said a tall girl with long braids, curled up in her own four-poster, the closest to the stairwell. "The House for the brave and wise...I'd much rather be here than anywhere else."

Her words were greeted with a chorus of high-pitched cheers and an explosion of laughter. It was a good thing that the dormitory walls were soundproof, otherwise the blast of noise would have deafened the rest of the presumably quietly sleeping Gryffindors.

Hermione Granger did not take part in the Gryffindor girls' festivities. She did not open her mouth once to add some juicy piece of gossip or interesting bit of information, because she did not know any. If she had, Hermione reckoned, she would probably have kept quiet, as well. The girls around her were so different than what she'd expected. Hogwarts, in this department, was a disappointment.

Her own understanding of the wizarding world was limited to the information relayed in her schoolbooks. She hadn't even visited Diagon Alley for her school shopping, since her Muggle parents thought it best to pre-order. Hermione, sectioned off from the word of magic she had just recently been thrown into, could offer nothing interesting to her fellow Gryffindors' conversation.

She had hoped for a group of studious, intelligent girls. Maybe she would have been better off in Ravenclaw. But something had drawn her to Gryffindor House. Hermione hardly considered herself brave. She hadn't had enough outside experience to even be able to categorize herself as courageous or cowardly. But the Sorting Hat had made the open decision for her. There must've been some reason she'd joined their ranks.

"Did you see? Neville Potter was sorted into Gryffindor!" yelped Lucy Bronson over the other girls' voices.

"Neville Potter…" Lavender Brown's eyes widened. "The Boy Who Lived? He's in our year, that's right! And in Gryffindor, too, although that's hardly a surprise."

The Boy Who Lived. Neville Potter. Or, more correctly, Longbottom. Hermione _did _know something of him. Just over a year old, the darkest, most evil wizard in history had attacked his family. Personally. His band of miscreants and followers, the Death Eaters, hadn't even been summoned. He had killed all of Neville's relatives, including his parents. The baby had subsequently been adopted by his parents' close friends and colleagues, Lily and James Potter, who already had a son of the exact same age.

Itching to divulge this information and bring herself into the fold of the talkative, very much awake Gryffindor girls, Hermione wondered if she would ever fit in. Her differences had been obvious since the Hat had shouted her House, and quite honestly, Hermione wasn't sure if she even _wanted _to become one of them—loud, chatty, and wholly annoying.

Turning over in bed, she extinguished her candle and pulled up her quilt. It was no use trying to think things through—tired as she was, Hermione was positive she couldn't make any well-judged decisions in her state of exhaustion.

* * *

><p>"He's our brother's best mate," said George Weasley. "Him and Harry, they spend hours at the Burrow every day. Up till our Hogwarts years, we saw them on an hourly basis."<p>

The Gryffindor third year boys sat in a circle on the floor in their dormitory, playing a celebratory, and riotous, game of Exploding Snap. Kenneth Towler, Brendan Dunstan, and Lee Jordan leaned in, listening intently to Fred and George's description of Neville and Harry Potter.

"They're not little angels," said Fred wisely, "Take a bit after George and I, we've taught them plenty of tricks. Scared Mum silly with that volcano cake. We take all of the credit," he added playfully.

"And what's more, we heard their Mum talking to our Mum about how they'd let in some garden gnomes to the house—they practically destroyed the bathroom and covered with their own_ poo._"

At that, the dormitory exploded into laughter. Lee, Kenneth, and Brendan fell over themselves laughing.

"Well, he's the Boy Who Lived, and his brother. What were we supposed to think, that he's a shy little bastard? He was a hero, even before he knew it!" exclaimed Kenneth merrily.

"Oh, stop kidding yourselves, you really think his adoptive parents have told him about his heroism? I mean, he must know he's adopted, but I don't suppose he'll know about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," said Brendan, his voice becoming solemn.

"Don't know about that, Dan," replied Lee.

"In any case, bloody Neville Potter is at Hogwarts!"

_Bang!_ The cards exploded, sending the boys into renewed fits of laughter.

* * *

><p>Draco Malfoy sat on the stiff, forest-green sofa in the Slytherin Common Room. He didn't like lakes, that, he'd known, even before he arrived at Hogwarts. But the lake-view window made Draco nauseous. None of the other Slytherins made a fuss when the Giant Squid floated peaceably by, but Draco felt bile rising in his throat.<p>

Nevertheless, he had assumed his place as the most influential of the first-years. Even the older students were aware of his lineage and his family, and were all too eager to stress his points and agree with him at every turn. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were powerful people. His son was bound to be just as ambitious.

The topic of conversation was Quidditch. The sport was boring, of that the Malfoy boy was sure. A sport played by braggards and twits. He waited impatiently for the subject to be exhausted, but after fifteen minutes of detailed, boring discussion on the Wronski Feint, Draco found he _needed_ to change the subject.

"I heard the Potter boy is here," he drawled.

Quidditch was dropped in favor of Draco's statement.

"Yeah, sorted into Gryffindor."

A chorus of jeers erupted around the Common Room. He held up his hand to silence them. Quiet came.

"I saw the prat in Diagon Alley, at the apothecary's, with his Mudblood mum and his annoying brother," continued Draco slowly. He paused. The entire room was still and silent, waiting for him to continue.

"Passing them by, I told them what gits they were, and his brother—Harry—had the nerve to shove me. Their mum didn't say a thing. Mudblood parents can't control their offspring—better off infertile."

The Slytherins about him hesitated for an uncomfortable second before they hissed, as if they themselves had transformed into an army of poisonous, murderous snakes.

* * *

><p>Minerva McGonagall stood facing the Headmaster's desk.<p>

Next to her stood Pomona, Sybill, and Septima. On her other side, Filius, Charity, and Hagrid. Behind them all stood Severus Snape, lounging in the dark and quiet of the threshold. Professor Kettleburn hurried in.

"Am I late?" he croaked worriedly.

"No, Professor," sighed McGonagall. "The Headmaster will arrive in just a few minutes."

"Or a shorter time than that," said a voice. The group turned towards the entrance. Professor Albus Dumbledore swept in, taking his place behind the large, carved mahogany desk. "I trust I find you all well-fed and refreshed," he added merrily.

The group of professors nodded amicably. "That you do, professor," quipped Pomona Sprout cheerily. "Splendid feast." Murmurs of assent trickled about the room.

"Well, the Sorting proceeded marvelously," said Professor Flitwick. "Fifteen new additions to Ravenclaw House! We were forced to expand the dormitories, you know, to accommodate them."

"And the grounds are in order," added Hagrid, his deep voice booming and echoing about the room. "Thestrals fed and happy, and the Self-Directing Boats all tied up."

Professor Dumbledore nodded. "Well. If all is well, perhaps we should suspend this pre-emptory meeting until the start of term has officially begun."

"Sir." Severus Snape moved up towards the Headmaster from the back of the room. His greasy black hair settled about his cheeks, framing his sallow face. "I think we are all a bit…disconcerted."

"Oh, Severus?" asked Dumbledore.

"The arrival of…Neville Potter has sparked some controversy and discussion."

"I should think it routine, professor," replied the Headmaster, his voice quiet and slightly confused. "A new student has joined our ranks. No different from any other."

"Neville Potter, sir!" exclaimed Professor McGonagall. "He has joined my House, along with his brother, Harry Potter. Perhaps you should allow Severus to finish…he has a valid point."

"Continue," prompted Professor Dumbledore.

Snape nodded. He said, "I think that it may be a point of…concern to many professors that his status as a famous wizard will prevent him from being…treated…in the same manner as the rest of the students. As you have said many times, Headmaster, equality is one of Hogwarts' founding principles."

The Headmaster chuckled. "Minerva, is this what you, too, wanted to say?"

Professor McGonagall shook her head. "Why, I would not think that any of our esteemed staff should take it upon themselves to _single Mr. Potter out_—in any way, shape, or form. I was instead referring to the obtuse treatment of our new student on the part of the Slytherin students. There are been some mockery, thankfully none of which has reached the poor boy's ears."

"Mockery, Minerva?"

Snape glowered. "What I think Professor McGonagall is trying to relate is that she believes that Slytherin students are taking it upon themselves to hurl abuse at _poor Mr. Potter_. I should assure you, this behavior is not limited to Mr. Potter. Slytherins and Gryffindors have a long history of conflict."

"But not to this level, Headmaster!" cried Professor McGonagall.

"Certainly to this level, _Minerva_," said Snape calmly. "If poor Mr. Potter cannot handle a few snide remarks, I should think his sensitive nature would prevent him from experiencing the full extent of Hogwarts life. I do believe that if the boy is troubled by these innocent games, he must return to his home. His attention-seeking qualities will not cease, and I think it best if you expelled him right away."

"Surely not, Severus!" yelped McGonagall.

"Indeed, Severus, I must agree with Professor McGonagall, though your concern for the boy is touching," said Dumbledore. "Dear professors, and faculty," he added, as Filch entered the office, "I do wish that this year will proceed as wonderfully as the last. You are welcome now to return to your rooms and offices."

Argus Filch pushed through the group, hobbling and limping, followed by his cat, Mrs. Norris. "Headmaster Dumbledore!" cried the custodian, "The Weasley twins have set off a fireworks display in the main entrance!"

The Headmaster's office shook with laughter.


End file.
